White Flowers
by Burntchicken
Summary: Fëanor's sons, especially Curufin, are being encouraged to carry on the line. Curufin is pushed towards Lady Niphredil, who will never give her heart to any male. Very mild OCOC femslash.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **All belongs to Tolkien._

_**Author's Note: **To cover my butt from having a limited knowledge of Quenya, I've made it so the character's names are what they would be known on Middle Earth._

* * *

_**Chapter 1**_

Curufin wiped the sweat off his brow. He wasn't at his forge – as much as he would've liked to have been – he was at one of his Father's ludicrous parties in a vain effort to marry all his brothers off. It seemed half the ladies in the whole of Arda were dancing around him in the hall Father had hired, giggling, waving their fans in some secret code to each other, and flirting with every elf-lord in sight.

He leaned against the wall, hoping against hope that his shirt would blend in with the wallpaper, as he watched his brothers drinking in all the attention as well as plenty of wine. Amrod and Amras were in their element, surrounded by a flock of ladies, and Curufin curled his lip in disgust. The twins would lavish their interest on the prettiest maidens available that night, but they wouldn't commit themselves. The expectant maidens would be sorely disappointed indeed when the twins refused to recognize them the next day.

The music was being conducted by Maglor, and sweet it may sound to others, Curufin couldn't suppress a shudder at the jollity. He wasn't feeling cheerful at all – quite the opposite. His scowl was working to fend the ladies off, and he decided he didn't like that too much either. He liked being alone, but not when everyone else was having a good time in great herds.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Curufin spun around to see his Father frowning at him. "Why are you on your own when even your brothers are being socially active? You know I'd like you to –"

"Yes father," Curufin muttered, turning away. Fëanor was going to lecture him _again_ on the importance of heirs and how it was going to affect his house and on and on and on. That was the one thing that he and his father disagreed on. Fëanor wanted grandchildren – none of his seven sons looked keen on starting a family, though most were well past their majority. Now he was giving intensely annoying hints on the matter, usually in public, and Curufin found that embarrassing and irritating.

"Lady Niphredil and her father are coming later," said Fëanor, a bit too casually, "and it'll be nice if you had a chat with her. She's a good girl, from a good Noldorin family" – he emphasized the _Noldorin_ with a glare at no one in particular – "so you'll have some _worthy_ company."

Fëanor's glance flickered to Curufin's brothers, and shook his head. With a clap on Curufin's shoulder, he was gone. A few moments later Maedhros appeared at his elbow, and offered him a goblet. Curufin took it and sipped; it was good wine, the best his Father had in the cellars.

"Did Father talk to you of marriage?" asked Maedhros with a shrewd look at Curufin's face. "I'm the eldest, and it's worse with me. You should hear him... it's almost as important to him as the Silmarils." His voice sounded oddly bitter.

"Why does he do it?" snapped Curufin. "We've got plenty of time. It's not like we're all going to disappear out of this world any second. And father's trying to set me up with a certain lady called – I can't quite remember, her name was something flowery."

"Was it Niphredil?"

"Yes, that was it. Interested in her yourself? About time too, brother."

Maedhros chuckled good-naturedly. "Don't get all defensive on me," he said. "No, I've heard lots of rumours about her, none of which are very flattering. She's coming later isn't she?"

"Yes – is that her?" Curufin pointed (rather rudely) to a young lady, accompanied by someone who looked like her father, entering the hall. She wasn't pretty, and her expression suggested she was gnawing at a block of ice. Her head was held high as she swept in like a queen.

"Go and find out," replied Maedhros, wresting back Curufin's goblet of half-drunken wine and shooing him away.

Out of the corner of his eye Curufin spotted his father approaching him; he quickly weaved his way into the crowds but his Father was too quick. He felt a hand grab his sleeve. It was Fëanor, looking pleased and smug.

"She's here," he said. "I'd like to introduce you to her."

"Argh – why me, father? Why not any of my brothers?" In vain Curufin protested as he was dragged to Niphredil. She was sitting straight-backed in a chair opposite her father, a sad-looking elf with drooping eyes. Her mouth thinned as Curufin was pushed towards her by a beaming Fëanor.

"Tarcil! Haven't seen you in such a long time; is this your daughter that I've heard so much about? This is Curufinwë Atarinkë, my fifth son."

The sad-looking elf, Tarcil, stood up and bowed. "I am honoured to introduce my daughter, Niphredil." She rose beside her father and bobbed a very shallow curtsey.

"A star shines upon our meeting," she said tonelessly. She quickly sat down again, not looking at Curufin or anyone else for that matter.

Aware that Fëanor was glaring at him pointedly, Curufin asked, "Lady, would you honour me with a dance?"

Curufin knew instinctively she was going to refuse. Relief poured in through his entire being until Tarcil frowned and nudged his daughter's ribs. She gazed up at him without a teaspoonful of emotion in her voice or face.

"I would be honoured."

* * *

The party was over. It was so late it was early the next day, and Curufin collapsed onto his bed and went immediately to sleep. Until he was rudely awakened by someone barging into his room and punching him hard in the head.

"Celegorm!" he bellowed, grasping his pillow and holding it over his face to protect himself. "What was that for?"

His brother smirked at him. "You're late for breakfast," he said condescendingly. "_And_ you're late for the forge – father's getting really impatient. We all know what happens when he gets impatient."

Curufin knew that well: his father was never the most even-tempered elf in Eldamar. Throwing aside the pillow, he said, "Let me get dressed –"

"You're still wearing the clothes you wore at yesterday's party?" Celegorm gave him an exaggerated look of pure repulsion. Curufin felt like hitting him – so he did.

Ignoring the yell of pain coming from Celegorm, he changed his garments that his Mother had made; he clenched his teeth at the harsh reality of Nerdanel not coming back. He didn't bother braiding his hair afresh, though it was a wild mop at the back of his head, and with his muttering brother went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Who was the girl you danced with? That was the only dance you had too – she seemed one of your ice sculptures brought to life."

"Lady Niphredil," Curufin answered as they entered the kitchen. On the dining table were some bread, butter and jam, and a jug of milk that smelled sour. Another reminder of Mother's absence.

At that moment Caranthir stuck his head in through the front door. "There you are, Curufin," he said. "Father's waiting for you and he's starting have a fit. Who _cares_ about your breakfast! Just come!"

Celegorm, to his credit, swiftly buttered a slice of bread and shoved it into Curufin's hands. "Tell me more about that girl after," he said with a wink. Rolling his eyes, Curufin ran out the door and hurried after Caranthir to the forges, Caranthir rebuking him furiously throughout the way.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: **All belongs to Tolkien._

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_**Chapter 2**_

Fëanor gazed at his Silmarils, enraptured. They blinked at him like newborn infants, sparkling brighter than any of Varda's stars. In a strong iron case, nestled in a bed of black velvet, Fëanor could hardly bear to take his eyes off them. With a dirty finger he stroked their shining surfaces, and they remained clean despite his grimy hands. So beautiful, so pure, so fresh like the Waters of Awakening...

"Father?"

It was Maedhros, the eldest. He reminded Fëanor of Nerdanel in so many ways, not least for his auburn hair. And Fëanor didn't want to be reminded of Nerdanel, she who had forsaken him and his sons. What kind of mother and wife did such a deed?

"What is it?" Fëanor said in a carefully neutral voice, shutting the iron case with a snap. He turned around to face his son.

"Did your father ever force you into something you didn't want to do?"

Fëanor hesitated. "Yes – and no."

"You're forcing Curufin to get married when he –"

"Enough," said Fëanor impatiently. "We've talked this a number of times. I have no wish to be a cow, chewing over old material again and again."

"But father..." Maedhros began.

"That is enough! Even your cousins are wedded, and Fingon has a son. Fingolfin has two sons. I have seven. Why does he have more grandchildren than I do?"

Maedhros sighed. With a quick bow he left. Fëanor turned back to his Silmarils, safe in the case, and so wonderful to behold, far more beautiful and marvellous than anything in the world...

* * *

"So, Curufin," said Celegorm, grinning, "tell me of your lady."

"She's not my lady," replied Curufin automatically. "She's just this girl Father bullied me into meeting."

"What's she like?"

"Dull. Cold. Boring."

"Dull and boring mean the same thing, brother," Celegorm drawled.

"There's nothing left to say. In that one dance we had, we didn't speak a single word. She seemed utterly uninterested in anything, always staring over my shoulder or hers. When the song was over, she practically fled."

His brother looked at him in mock-distaste. "Are you that unpopular with ladies?"

Curufin threw a cushion at him. The lounge they were in was a mess, very dusty and the windows were filthy. The carpet had a thick layer of dog hairs – Huan, that monstrosity of a beast was to blame – and no one could be bothered to do any cleaning. Not like they ever had enough time to clean anyhow. Maglor always singing or composing new songs, Maedhros was away constantly, Curufin himself was at the forge with Caranthir all day, Celegorm out hunting with the twins at all hours, and of course Father was forever engrossed in making something new or spending time with the Silmarils.

If only Mother was here... Curufin was pulled back to the present when Celegorm clicked his fingers at his face. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I am!"

"Good – oh, there's Maedhros storming up the path." Sure enough, there was a bang as the door was opened and shut and the eldest of Fëanor's sons stomped through the kitchen and into the lounge.

"It's useless," he said to a bewildered Curufin and Celegorm. "Father is intent on forcing you into a marriage with Lady Niphredil." He was looking at Curufin as he said that.

Celegorm laughed. "Come, it can't be that bad!" he said.

"Lady Niphredil is –" Maedhros stopped and started again, this time in a quieter tone. "You won't be happy with her, Curufin," he said. "She loves another, they say. It'll be difficult to live with a lady whose heart isn't given to you."

"What gives you the idea that I'm going to marry her?" snapped Curufin, baffled and angry. "I have absolutely _no intention_ of marrying her; I've only known of her existence for two days!"

"You know Father," said Maedhros patiently. "He'll do whatever he wants. He wants _you_ to have children, Curufin, because you have his talent in crafting, and he wants more to be like him. Lord Tarcil, that's Lady Niphredil's father, is desperate for any elf-lord to have his daughter – so the father's consent is secured."

"All this talk of marriage!" Celegorm snorted like a horse. "It's making me sick. What's for dinner, Maedhros?"

"What we've always had: bread and butter. What gave you the idea it's going to be any different today?"

"It'll be different –" the brothers jumped at the sound of their Father's voice from the kitchen "– because I've invited Tarcil and his daughter for dinner tonight."

"What!" Maedhros ran into the kitchen, Celegorm and Curufin at his heels. "Father, who's going to do the cooking, preparing, and, and – and you should've told us earlier."

Fëanor shrugged. "I've ordered some food," he said, looking around at the dank benchtops and the oak dining table. "Do you lot ever clean?" He put on an apron and started to wipe away the dirt and mould with a wet cloth, motioning for his stunned sons to help him.

Curufin had just cleared away the last pile of dishes into the cupboard when the doorbell rang. Celegorm went over to open it to reveal the twins and Caranthir, carrying a large bundle each. A delicious smell wafted in, the aroma of freshly-baked bread, cheese, roasts, and sweets, almost knocking Curufin faint. "Here, I'll help you with that," he said, pushing Celegorm out of the way.

The brothers set the table as well as they could (though a small tussle erupted over which napkins to use) and dressed in their best attire for the guests. Maglor was away and would not be returning until the next day according to a slightly derisive Fëanor. They waited nervously at their chairs, all eyes fixed on the door, wondering when the guests were ever to turn up.

Just as Caranthir muttered terrible oaths, Lord Tarcil and his daughter arrived. Curufin was ordered to let them in and take their cloaks – he silently cursed his Father as he hung up the cloaks with every person watching. They all sat around the large oak table and ate their dinner. The twins made up most of the conversation, telling everyone excitedly of their latest hunting adventures, with Celegorm interrupting every now and again to correct a minor detail and to shoot down their glorious moments.

Niphredil was as cold as ever, not speaking to anyone. She occasionally smiled at the twins' funnier tales, but the smiles were brief and far between. Her grey eyes glimmered in the candlelight, and her mouth was as thin as ever. She was wearing all white, and a silver chain necklace twinkled around her pale throat. Curufin couldn't stifle a sniff at the necklace: it was cheaply crafted, and the smith had made a vain attempt to make it look more original by using a pattern of different shapes to construct the chain. A few (badly cut, in his opinion) diamonds hung from the necklace. Curufin wondered where she had got such an odious piece of jewellery from.

"Do you like my necklace, lord?" asked Niphredil, seeing his gaze. "It was my mother's."

He was extremely tempted to say he thought the necklace was a piece of garbage, but tact held him in check. So he replied, "It's beautiful, lady." He winced at the snickers coming from around the table; was it _that_ obvious he was lying?

"Thank you lord Curufin," said Niphredil coolly. "No doubt you think you can craft a far better one yourself."

Taking no notice of the twins' muffled laughter, he fixed Niphredil with an unblinking stare and said, "You are a fine reader of thoughts, my lady. I _can_ make a far better one than what you're wearing – and I am not ashamed to admit it." He leant back in his chair and carefully avoided his father's wrathful expression at the head of the table. Celegorm, who was sitting beside him, chuckled softly and patted him on the shoulder when no one was looking.

"I think it's best if we left now," said Tarcil quickly, clearing his plate and standing up. He nodded to his daughter, who followed suit. "No, my lord Fëanor, there is no need to escort us out given that the door is only a few feet away," he said when Fëanor made a move to rise. "Thank you for the dinner."

Niphredil said nothing, but curtseyed respectfully and went after her father out the door and into the silvery light of Telperion.


End file.
